


The Shadow over Misthallery

by crystalizing



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Cthulhu Mythos, Gen, H.P Lovecraft, HP Lovecraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalizing/pseuds/crystalizing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inky-blue blood that I'm sure is not my own, frothing and marshmallow-like, presses through old wounds. A steely thrill racks me by my spine, hardens me as I look upon amphibious creatures gestating their young in expanding, balloon-like mouths. I have the awareness to recognize the boy looking down at me before I am snuffed like a candle, and folded back into the dream. Chase my prints down those old footpaths, and find what I never could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO so this is posted from my tumbl account over @ the-lil-noodler. chances are its still gonna be put up over there, but i thought i'd give this a shot too just to throw it out there. to paraphrase from over there: this is a long-term fanfic im punching up thats maybe a little trite at its foundation, and while school means i can't really promise a schedule, i do intend to try my best to finish it. for now none of the warnings really apply. im new to this site so i hope i can edit stuff like that and the character tags since this is also probably gonna involve a lot of NPCs and im not exactly sure which ones yet. 
> 
> by now the next part is in the tubes and while this doesnt really have a lot of meat to it at all i hope you enjoy anyway!!

Dear Hershel,

  
My old friend, how long has it been? I apologize for my poor correspondence, and I

earnestly hope that you are doing well. As for myself, I have recently had the

exciting opportunity to preside as mayor with my family over an enchanting, 

tiny village called Misthallery. It is a quiet place, but not without its charms. 

All I can hope is that you will enjoy my town as much as I do, should you find the

time to see it.  
  
  
Remembering our last conversation, you had a lucrative job in London in

education at Gressenheller. Couldn’t stay away from the place, I see!

Typical, from what I remember of college! I am only joking, of course. I am as 

unfailingly proud of you as I was when you got the job 10 years ago. I am still

rather jealous, if I am being quite frank. You are likely to see, Hershel, that

nobody is as quick to speak poorly of Gressenheller as they are to praise its

fantastic academic achievements!  
  
  
I am afraid that I must soon end this letter. I have much work still before I can

rest yet. A mayor’s work seems, regretfully, never done! I

shall diligently await your response to this letter until then, Hershel. I am

terribly sorry again for my lack of word. I have missed you greatly, my friend.

  
  
Kindest regards,  
Clark Triton


	2. Haddonbury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally its done. this has been sitting in my computer for awhile but school and christmas came up so i havent been able to get around to it.  
> still not much into the meat of things and im not sure im totally happy with it right now but its a start.

The letter, tucked neatly underneath a postcard from his mother, easily caught his attention as he sifted through his mail. He's at a strange, confused sort of loss to think of anybody who may be mailing him from Haddonbury.   
  
Hershel pads his way back into the kitchen, where Claire, still groggy in her loose, sashed pajamas, is sitting quietly to the breakfast he cooked just earlier.   
  
“Good morning, dear,” She speaks wearily as he walks into the room, kissing her head as he passes. Layton rests the mail before his seat as he continues to the stove, quietly drawing water to the kettle for some tea.   
  
Claire, seemingly bored with her breakfast, shifts the envelope at the other end of the table. He hears the sound before he realizes her curiosity. “Haddonbury? Who could we possibly know in Haddonbury?”   
  
He sets the kettle on the stove, turns to Claire's curious eyes. “I was hoping that you might know something.” He sits down to his breakfast; salty bacon, firm eggs and thinly buttered toast, on a crisp Sunday morning. Rain is streaming gently down the grey window by his side as he holds the letter.   
  
She doesn't have to think; “No, I can't recall anyone.” Hershel trusts her recollection more then he trusts his own on most occasions, and she is very sure of herself.   
  
“Perhaps a mistaken address, then.” Only one real way to find out, of course. Claire crunches on her toast and watches him as he pinches one end of the envelope and peels the paper back.   
  
“Misthallery is rather close...”   
  
Indeed it is, and he knows what Claire is hinting at. He'd not thought of Clark, and there are few other possibilities occuring to either of them. Hershel knows that this does not mean that Clark is a reasonable fit. Why address the letter from Haddonbury? Had Misthallery not been all that he and his family had thought?   
  
Hershel tears the envelope, listening to the kettle just start to rattle, and slides out a neatly-folded sheet. He tucks the envelope aside gently and unfolds the paper carefully. It's hand-written, and he can tell the author from a simple glance.   
  
Clark – how long had it been since he'd heard from Clark? He smiles a little, relaxes as Claire stands to tend to the kettle, and spoons into one of the boiled eggs on his plate quietly.   
  
Reading over the actual text, he finds his smile fading, and he's left perplexed. The letter itself, clearly, is of little consequence. He reads and rereads, and he finds no real message or purpose behind any of it. It trundles along, awkward and stilted, doused in something just a little too saccharine to be entirely genuine. What sliver of substance that can be found in the letter tells him this; Clark is doing very well, and apparently, is quite happy in Misthallery with his family. The rest serves little purpose to the overall communication.   
  
But if that was truly all to be said, then why send anything at all? Certainly, Clark had had his chances in the past to write. So why, after all this time, had this been what he'd received? Hershel thoughtfully pours some tea into his mug as Claire brings the warm pot to the table, sipping as he reads it over. She watches him.   
  
“... Hershel?” He glances up; Claire looks vaguely worried, and he's only relieved that he hasn't concerned her further. “Is something the matter?”   
  
He finishes one of the eggs and pushes the letter a little closer, allowing Claire to pick it up. “It's Clark, but I can't quite understand what it is he's telling me.”   
  
The Professor starts into the other egg as Claire reads, sipping at her tea and finishing her slice of toast. From her expression, she's just as perplexed as he was; her eyes move over the page once, twice, three times, but the confusion doesn't leave her expression. She sets it down at length and crunches the rest of her toast away. She waits until swallowing to speak again.   
  
“I can't understand why he'd write a letter just to tell you that. Nor can I understand why he'd address it from Haddonsbury.” She picks up a crispy slice of fried bacon, “There must be more to it.”   
  
There had to be, of couse, and Hershel was glad for Claire's agreement in this matter, but where could it be? He was positive there was nothing else in the envelope but the letter itself.   
  
He wipes his fingers quickly on the napkin by his plate and takes the leaf of paper, laying it out and unfolded to scrutinize. Hershel watches the letters carefully, penned in Clark's careful hand, as he sips at his black tea. He doesn't understand the letter, nor what about Clark's words and authorship has surpassed him, but he feels an odd sort of compulsion towards it.   
  
Claire sensed it, clearly; conversation was minimal as he studied the letter. His teacup is just half empty when the words begin to take meaning.   
  
He stands abruptly, causing Claire to start as she is walking her dish to the sink. Tucking the letter and the envelope it arrived in between his thumb and forefinger, Hershel walks down the hall to his study. He takes his plate with him.   
  
He lays both flat on the ashen-wood surface of his desk, unscrews his fountain pen's lid and draws a single, smooth pen stroke, singling out the aligned words on the letter's far left. There, he found his answer; and with it, the true meaning behind the letter.   
  
Spelled out clearly: meet at return first.   
  
The message spelled at the letter's side is strange and clumsy, but conveys leagues more then the letter itself could hope to. “Return,” he can only guess, refers to the return address - which is obviously from nowhere in Misthallery. So, the rest of the letter aside, Clark would like to meet at the return address, which indicates an address in Haddonbury.   
  
The only elements left on either side of his interpretation is the word 'first,' and a general time that this meeting should take place. A brief look at the calendar reveals today to be the 25nd of March.   
  
He hears Claire approach the door to his study quietly. “What on Earth's the matter, Hershel?” Hershel leaves the letter as it is on his desk. He takes a seat pulls out a leaf of paper, and begins to diligently scribble.   
  
“I may be going away for awhile, dear.”   
  


\--

  
  
While Clark's method of message delivery was likely substantially easier then simply writing a message, it certainly leaves Layton with much to question.   
  
He pushes through sloughing April rains - far too early for a respectable gentleman such as himself to be going anywhere simply called “The Top Drawer.” Clark's letter, unfortunately, had failed to indicate at which time Hershel was expected. The absence of that detail, while not without its share of confusion, was something that he could allow for; Claire hadn't been untrusting in his departure, and the Dean was understanding of his sudden “family emergency.” He'd left early in the morning, so as to maximize his chances of seeing Clark at the correct time - at 7 o'clock, Clark's letter and a road map tucked into the inside of his jacket - and made his way toward Haddonbury as best as he could in the cold downpour.   
  
The journey to the little burg took a little longer then Layton had anticipated, owing largely to the rain and at least one instance of the freshly muddied dirt roads snagging his car by its wheels - it's clear that the countryside leading from London isn't exactly built for automobiles yet, the road transitioning from a cold slurry of mud and bumpy cobblestone. Upon arrival, thankfully finding the little pub doesn't prove difficult at all. The Top Drawer, as it turns out, serves as a common haunt for the people of Haddonbury, and he has conclusive and solid direction after just one stop - a small, family-run bakery.   
  
There's a friendly, silver tinkle of a bell above his head as he enters, from sheeting rain and grey to the smell of baking bread. An elderly, bent woman, skin pale and almost translucent, is behind the counter, peering through thick glasses at her brassy register. The register itself looks quite old to Hershel - the brass has long since lost its sheen, and is oxidizing. He would be unsurprised to hear that it'd never been replaced.   
  
The old woman adjusts her round spectacles as the door chimes, hugging a thin, plum-coloured shawl around her shoulders, and looks up. Her eyes are unmistakably cloudy, large through her thick glasses.   
  
“Oh, dear me, dear me...” The words sigh from her as she works her way from behind the register, weathered and creaky. Hershel steps forward - he'd not intended for his presence to be such a considerable inconvenience.   
  
“A good morning to you, madam, please - there is no need to trouble yourself.”   
  
“It's a right terrible morning, sir, if I dare to say myself,” she carefully totters down the little half-step to the register's front, steadies herself against the counter, gropes briefly for her cane and shrugs her tatty shawl around her shoulders again, “and you don't look like you owe it many favours.” Hershel finds that he can't entirely argue with that; it's been cold and wet, and he can't say that he's surprised to see that that much is clear to her.   
  
He smiles a little, though remains close to the establishment’s door. “Perhaps so, my dear.” He takes a look around the wooden bakery; there are various shelves of bagged bread, bins of cookies and other baked confections, prices written on paper signs. To the right of the woman's register, there's a large, warm brick oven, filling the establishment with heat, and a set of hard, wooden stairs to the left side of the area behind the counter leads up to a small landing. The bakery is smaller then what he might expect to see in London, much smaller, but more snug for it. “Fortunately, your fine establishment looks just the right place to be on such a morning.”   
  
She shoots him a look, her face crinkling like paper at his words. “Oh no, now, you're going and flattering an old lady. Having your angel's wings for today, are we?   
  
“Ahh, now, sir, chilled as you are,” The old lady gestures towards the staircase with her cane, before turning and hobbling away from the register counter, skirts pinched in her other hand as she walks, “head on upstairs and take yourself a seat. I'll be up soon as I may be.”   
  
This wasn't shaping up to be what Hershel expected at all - his visit was proving to be quite an inconvenience to the poor woman, and the absolute last thing he'd wanted to do was to allow his presence to cause any sort of disturbance or undue trouble. He'd wanted to simply gather his directions and leave, not cause unneeded effort on the part of the elderly proprietress of the bakery. Hershel ignores the staircase completely and heads after the elderly woman, shoes wetly squeaking against the old wooden floor. “Oh - please, madam, there's no need to trouble yourself.” Hershel isn't quire sure what he expects to gain from repetition, but he tries it all the same, expanding as the old lady stops and looks at him, “I had only planned to ask directions and be on my way. I would hate to make any imposition on you.”   
  
She doesn't seem all that concerned with Hershel's words - she walks towards one of the many spindly wooden shelves, examining the baked loaves of bread resting on the shelf closest to the door. “No trouble nor inconvenience, and you'll have your directions soon as you've taken a seat. I'll not have it said that I sent guests into that horrid cold without so much as a cup of tea. All monkeys out there, young man, an' you look to've had your share of it enough!”   
  
And, as much as he doesn't want to be a bother, he looks out of the white-grey window through the washing of cold rain; her offer is not only tempting, but refreshing. He'd doubt such hospitality could be easily found in London, and a cup of tea would indeed be something heartening to leave with. Still, he'd not leave with it at the work of this poor woman. Hershel walks forward, squeaking all the way, and places a gentle hand on the woman's thin arm. “Please, allow me.” Hershel says, gently guiding her from the shelf, “Setting the kettle and brewing a pot of tea is the least I can do to repay such a kindness.”   
  
He feels the lady looking at him, grasping for words. Apparently, she finds none suitable enough to deny the Professor's insistence; instead, as he quietly reaches the living area of her tiny home and helps her ease into the seat, an old-looking sofa upholstered in wearing velveteen, she requests that he take the loaf of bread sitting on the register counter, and the herb scones on the third shelf by the door in particular. Hershel makes the quick trip down the stairs to fetch the baked goods and walks briskly into the kitchen.   
  
The proprietress' kitchen is a snug little room, adjacent to the landing with the little coffee-table and loveseat. Pots hang above a small dining room table, still bearing crumby plates and a wrapped parcel in a wicker basket which he can only assume to be a half-finished loaf of bread. In terms of new kitchenware, the only addition in the last few recent years seems to be an ice-box - and that itself seems relatively outdated, being made of wood rather then a smoother, metal box. There's a water-basin, which also looks ot be relatively antiquated. Shelves hung with metal ladles, bulbs and bunches of various herbs, stacked with pots and cookware and jars of dried herb as old as Layton might care to guess. He knows now where the warm aroma he'd detected earlier comes from.   
  
The larger kitchen downstairs, Hershel suspects, is where most of the lady's work is done; this room lacks the majesty and heat of the black-metal and brick oven of the lower floor. It is commanded by a great, black stove, attached by way of a thick pipe to the farthest wall. A thick-looking skillet sits on the stove's top, and a brass kettle sits beside it. At its side is a small, wooden counter - doubtlessly for the cutting and preparation of food. It is here that Layton sets the basket of cheese and herb scones down.   
  
He first turns to the jars of dried herbs - unlabelled, or with labels so long worn and yellowed that Hershel couldn't manage to read them anymore. In the adjacent chamber, the wooden legs of the loveseat creak.   
  
“Blow me a wind, is my kitchen giving you trouble?” He can hear the creaking resume; he reasons that she is attempting to stand and enter the room to help him, and a simple half-turn confirms this.   
  
“Nothing that I would ask you on your feet for, my good woman.” He leans over, looking to her rising form. “I must ask where it is you keep your tea.”   
  
She seems vaguely disappointed at being denied the effort of standing, and she eases back onto the couch with a slight huff. “Oh, there are jars of it behind the curtain under the water-basin.” She seems careful not to settle too much, he notices - one old hand is still tight on the couch's arm. “Are you quite comfortable with loose leaves, sir?”   
  
He has to smile at the woman's concern - not out of offence, nor of any smug sense of knowing better, but in simple tact. “Comfortable enough, surely.” He hears the woman huff once again as he approaches the basin, taking the kettle as he passes it and eyeing a squat little tea-egg resting on the sink's edge. He pours the cold, stale tea - certainly another remainder of the woman's earlier breakfast - and rinses the pot's inside.   
  
He rests the full kettle on the stove before he kneels down and pushes the white curtain from his view, examining quickly the stout little jars one by one. The labels on these jars disappoint him much in the same way the larger jars on the shelf did; yellowed, aged and torn beyond legibility. He unscrews the closest and gives a quick smell, finding an agreeable black morning blend in the jar. It would do. Hershel carries the thing to the teapot by the stove and portions out enough for a pot and deposits the infuser to the ceramic pot's bottom.   
  
The tea taken care of for the moment, Hershel is left to cut some slices from the loaf of bread (the round, powdered loaf of potato bread on the table, rather then the full loaf she'd requested him to fetch; he'd not wanted to waste food that could be sold,) and arrange the scones on a plate. He fetches the butter dish and a knife, setting all of the items on a silver tray. Hershel next hooks his fingers with a sugar dish and small creamer of milk on the table, and opens the ice chest by the table - waiting for him there is another small dish of clotted cream and a jar of strawberry jam preserves, which he scoops up as carefully as he can manage in his other hand. He sets the things, jars and creamers and dishes, on the tray, completing the tray with a pair of small, stacked saucers, before carefully walking it out.   
  
The old woman watches him from her old sofa, and he stoops down carefully to set the tray down. Hershel sits in the opposing seat: a lengthy sofa, upholstered in cream damask and lined with cushions of varying sizes. The woman shuffles forward carefully and plucks up a scone with the pads of her fingers; Hershel unscrews the jar of jam preserves for her and sets it to her side of the squat coffee table, which she scoops from with a knife and her thanks. Layton contents himself for the time being with a slice of bread, dragging a thin cut of soft butter over the bread's surface.   
  
"Now, I do regretfully believe that I have forgotten my manners," She's cutting her scone in two as she speaks, and pauses briefly only to dip into the jam on her plate. "I've not asked your name, nor your business here in Haddonbury. I've not seen you about until now." She pauses again, absently looking Layton over as she spreads the jam on her knife generously on her scone. "You've the bearing of a university man about you."   
  
He pauses in ripping a politely-sized portion of the savoury bread on his small plate and looks up. "Oh, my. The fault is as much mine as yours, madam. My most sincere apologies. Hershel Layton."   
  
"Eloise Kelshaw." She's scooping the clotted cream from the dish along with the jam now, replacing the top half on the cream and jam. "The fault's all mine, Mister Layton. It has been a long time since I last seen a caller. I've nearly forgotten my upbringing."   
  
"I would disagree, Miss Kelshaw." Hershel pauses now to eat the small tear of bread; moist and heavier then regular bread, dense, slightly sweet. It's an interesting thing to try, certainly. "Such ready hosts are rare in London."   
  
"London!" She sounds slightly taken aback; he glances up to be faced with her staring eyes. "What on Earth is it you've come from London in this weather to Haddonbury for?"   
  
"I was hoping you may help me with just that." She leans in slightly, clearly anticipating some great and driving force behind this long trip. He supposes he must look like he's seeking some strange curiosity, something romantic and sweeping in story. He expects that it looks a great deal grander then the truth. "I was wondering if, perhaps, you may provide me with directions to an establishment called The Top Drawer."   
  
She deflates, but clutches the shawl at her chest. The answer is obviously not only disappointing, has also clearly raises some offense. "Now, what would a man of your bearing be doing at a place like that, Mister Layton? And so early in the morning! I can't even say if there'll be anyone to serve you there. London, I'm quite sure, has its own pubs open at such hours!"   
  
Bizarrely (and, yes, even embarrassingly,) Hershel couldn't say that he curiosity of it had struck him before - he might have guessed the place to be a pub of some sort, for he couldn't reason out what other sort of place might have such a name. But, as he thinks on it, he realizes Eloise has a very good point - he does not look like the sort of man who goes skulking after rural alehouses at such an early hour. He clears his throat before answering; "Only reuniting with an old friend."   
  
"Your friend is from Haddonbury?" She's interested; he wonders just how connected Haddonbury must be, for Eloise to be so convinced that she may know this friend without any other description.   
  
He's looking down at his bread as he begins to answer, tearing another heavy chunk of bread from his slice. "No, in fact. He is from Misthallery. I'm assured it isn't a terrible distance from here."   
  
Certainly, Hershel doesn't expect the expression he sees when he next looks up.   
  
He can't say what about that name has filled poor Eloise Kelshaw with such unmistakable, encompassing dread, but something has. She is staring at him with confusion, but mostly fear; the earlier, aged cloud within her dark eyes has vanished entirely, replaced with something steely. She hardly needs to say anything - it's rather easy for Hershel to gather her next question before she speaks it. "... how is it you've come to know anyone fom that--" she puts her plate down into her lap with a sort of resolve and strength he had not observed nor expected, "that horrid place?"   
  
The reaction is entirely unexpected, and it plants within Layton seeds for a deep, subtle kind of worry. Suddenly, the unorthodox method of Clark's communication is making terrible sense. "I beg your pardon, is there something upsetting about Misthallery?"   
  
The rapid, hurried manner in which she crosses her chest tells him volumes.   
  
"There is plenty to be upset about!" Eloise's eyes are boring into him now, with a passion and resolve he hadn't quite been prepared for, and Hershel finds himself shifting with discomfort. He detects a slight tremble to her fragile, aged form, a tremor in her voice; "You mean to say those people, they're-- they're bringing themselves here? Here, into Haddonbury?"   
  
He's not sure what regarding the town has wrought such upset in Eloise, but it is clear enough that she is wrenched with something. He sees her hand flexing under thin skin to clutch her shawl in a desperate vice grip - her face is flushing red, eyes growing watery. Her tremble is mounting in intensity. She looks very ready to up and walk all the way to The Top Drawer to throw Clark out of her town herself.   
  
"Please, Miss Kelshaw, calm yourself--"   
  
"'Calm myself,' indeed!" She eyes him sharply, sitting up straighter and taller then he might have suspected her able.   
  
There's a clear quaver to her voice, and Hershel can't explain why that frightened him so. He takes a deep, shaking breath. He speaks slowly, softly - anything he might be able to do to soothe the situation. "Madam, I can assure you that I mean to inflict no harm on this town. I am only here to see an old friend." She does not seem wholly soothed by that proclamation - her expression shifts, but not in a very savoury manner. Her suspicion, momentarily, has visibly shifted to Hershel himself. Her wrinkling lids narrow, beady eyes sharpening on him – she hardly needs to tell him to keep Misthallery out of Haddonbury. "If it is of any comfort to you, he is not a native of Misthallery itself."   
  
A fraction of the suspicion finally appears to subside. Her breathing slows, deepens, but her eyes and voice remain sharp and shrill, quick with suspicion. "You're sure of this?"   
  
"Completely. Clark was born well outside of Misthallery. We studied in London together."   
  
She seems to consider that for a moment; he sees clear, brief recognition in her face. "Clark... the mayor."   
  
"Yes." As she calms, so does Hershel; he breathes a small breath of relief when she resumes her earlier leisurely position. "He holds office, though he's not contacted me in some time."   
  
Just as he hears the kettle start a whistle, low and rumbling; "Not much mail gets out of Misthallery."   
  
He stands as the kettle grows louder. This time, she doesn't argue verbally. Instead, she grabs his sleeve as he walks by, the kettle whistling all the way from the kitchen. She tugs him down as he stops, staring at him with a renewed, sharp brightness in her aging eyes.   
  
"You mustn't go to that place." There must have been some give in Hershel's expression, because she tightens her grip on his sleeve. "You mustn't go. They're a godless, horrid folk in Misthallery. You've not heard them at night, on and across the lake-" She points a finger to her storefront, doubtlessly gesturing to the lakeshore beyond the wall - "but we here have. You mustn't go to that place."   
  
He nods as smoothly as can be managed, despite the ill ease Eloise's warning sets him at, and thanks her before he's released to tend to the kettle's squealing in the kitchen.


	3. The Reply

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember when this was a thing
> 
> actual chapter is coming sometime soon. it's written, i just have to edit it.
> 
> also yes, there is a spelling mistake in this. it's 100 percent intentional. maybe you'll figure out why. maybe you might see later? maybe. just dont comment on it. TRUST THAT I KNOW ABOUT IT AND IT SERVES A PURPOSE

Dear Clark,

  
Such a rare treat! I could certainly say, of all of the things that I opened the mailbox to,

a letter attached to your name finds a place as the oddest conclusion, I may say! My heart

is gladened to finally hear word, trusting Brenda is partway as satisfied.

 

Many years indeed have gone by, though so little seems changed! I’ve read your wonderful

message many times, I never seem to be unable to know your voice so distinctly!  
  
Your memory serves you – I’ve taken a job, one that really brings me joy every day. I suppose

Gressenheller is my home away from home!

  
Now, we really must keep in touch!

  
Sincerely,

Hershel Layton


	4. Clark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what'd i tell ya am i a boy of my word or WHAT
> 
> anyways leave ur reviews in the commentz if u have them. there's still a lot more of this to be written so any feedback is very welcome!

By the time he'd arrived, he wasn't exactly prepared for a warm reunion, literal or figurative. He was soaked through, his jacket and waistcoat both dripping with an icy cold that he can't quite dispel, and cold mud sloshes in his shoes. While he appreciated Eloise's gesture and kindness greatly, hot tea and fresh bread could only shield him against the rain's cold for so long, and he was already beginning to feel chilled again.

All the same, he pulls his car to a stop in front of the pub; a stocky, stone building, with a dangling wooden sign indicating the Top Drawer Pub at the end of a shaded sort of staircase. Pins and needles of frigid rainwater sopped against his skin, Layton checks his watch. He'd meant to arrive earlier then noon, and in better condition, but by now, all he could truly do about it was hope Clark hadn't been waiting too long.

Hershel pops his car door open and carefully works his way back into the cold rain, striding as briskly as he can to the staircase. He descends to the wooden door awaiting him – a door that strikes Layton as oddly welcoming, with a warm wooden pane, brass door knob, and a little window, pieced together out of thick, stained pieces of glass – and he opens the door.

Eloise's postulating, thankfully, proves itself to be incorrect. The door is unlocked, and not only does a barkeep watch him from the door, there are even a few patrons inside.

The bar itself, while cluttered with unfortunate turns, fragrant cigar smoke and shadows, is far more roomy then he might have thought. There is room for two pool tables (and more yet elsewhere – there looks to be a great deal more to the pub that he can't yet see, hidden by inconvenient columns of wood and turns.) He immediately catches sight of a few things – tables, a simple oaken bar stocked with various bottles and lined with tall chairs, and the portly barkeeper in his stained apron, doggish jowls hung from a strong, square jaw.

As well, immediately to his right is a coat rack. He shrugs out of his wet jacket and occupies one of the many free pegs before advancing into the bar. The barkeeper watches him. He shifts the cigar in his teeth with his tongue.

“Them racks is for hats too, sir.”

He puts that remark aside. “I am looking for a friend. We've arranged to meet here.”

The barkeeper sweeps an arm out; “I'm not stoppin' you from lookin'. Not gonna be that hard findin' any bloke in the likes of this place,” Here, he pauses, taking a quick glance of Hershel, “though I can't be sure you'll find folk of your sort altogether easy here.”

Whatever venom Hershel could extrapolate from that aside, the barkeeper was correct – there was one man slumped at the bar with a bottle, wearing a tatty sweater, stained overalls hanging from his shoulders, holding a bottle, and little else. Hershel thought he heard the thump, thump, thump of darts somewhere else in the establishment. Nobody he was familiar with.

He turns back to the barkeeper, considers pushing for more information, but ultimately decides against it. Not only does he want to avoid causing undue trouble, he can't be sure what Clark expects to tell him. If whatever he planned to relay was important enough to hide in the margins of a letter, then it was also important to spare any chances that he could.

He turns his head smoothly to the barkeep, smiling. “Of course. Thank you very much.” The man chews his cigar, but says little else.

Briskly, Hershel walks from the bar – creaking all the way over hardwood floor and around tables. The bar is lit, but empty and quiet. Narrow, lofty windows crack at the top corner every now and again, just where the wall and ceiling meet, and allow for thin scraps of grey light to enter the basement. He stops to take a look into the first open path he sees – a few tables, overtipped bottles. A tall, thin fellow in a cap is pulling darts from the board hanging on the wall. He continues before he's noticed and rounds the corner.

And around that corner, at the very end is a figure huddled at a table, clutching a glass of amber swill. It's been a long while, but Layton knows him when he sees him.

Barely, he must admit as he gets closer.

Clark's knuckles whiten around his glass – which, Hershel realizes as he draws nearer, is virtually untouched. Hershel stops as his friend visibly tenses. His head angles just slightly to catch sight of Hershel's approach. 

Clark doesn't regard Hershel as he might have hoped he would; with a hollow, tired sort of fear, rather than the warm recognition Layton had vainly hoped for. He'd never struck Hershel as the sort to tire of being afraid, but that seemed a distressingly apt description.

He stares at him. His eyes are dark. He's waiting, fearing something, but Hershel can't know what. The sudden nature of the movement has Hershel at a brief standstill; it has been quite awhile since last they spoke, but this is a far cry from the Clark of his memories, a young man who spent his nights swilling ale and trolling pubs situated around Gressenheller, grinning through classes pale and sick with what he called “the liquid flu.” Hershel can't be completely sure what has changed Clark so. He supposes that he has made it his business to find out.

“Clark.”

At that simple word, he seems satisfied. The fear leaves his face, the tension leaves his muscles. He exhales a great, gusty sort of breath, and his shoulders slump with the effort. He leans on the table, just barely, and drags a hand over his face. The fear and tension has edged away from him, but the weariness suggested by the slack, heavy slouch in his shoulders strikes Layton just as prominently. He doesn't want to so much as consider what weight his shoulders heave with until Clark makes it plain. 

“... please. Have a seat.”

The exhaustion in his body carries into his voice, Hershel notes, as the words tumble dryly from him. He doesn't argue with the suggestion, circling around and sitting in the stiff, hard seat opposite of Clark's. His attention returns to his water; Hershel can see the glassware around his palms condensing with nervous heat. His fingers scrub against his glass in a quiet, anxious effort to occupy the air around them. He can see his friend trying exceptionally hard to orchestrate himself.

Clark swallows dryly. “It's... it's very good to see you again, Hershel.” He hadn't known Clark to ever manage speech so wooden and awkward.

“Likewise.”

The air thickens for the silence; Clark composing himself quietly at the other side of the table, and Hershel reluctant to speak before realizing the breadth of the situation he’s entered. Clark seems unpleasantly aware of the silence as well, but makes a concentrated effort to avoid meeting Hershel’s eyes. 

All at once, in a quavering, fragile whisper, the words fall from him, piling onto each other in terrified fervor:

“Were you followed? D-did anyone see you? Who else knows?” The Professor is left stammering before Clark’s wide-eyed and frantic hissing. He barely waits for an answer before finally looking up and leaning forward, restating his question: “Hershel, who else knows?”

“Pl— Clark, please,” The Professor holds out a surrendering hand, half-hoping to shield himself from the rest of the barrage, “I have come alone, and I have told no one but Claire. We are very much safe.”

That word seems to trigger something of a release in Clark. His sucking breaths recede from Hershel’s immediate awareness, and he slumps back in his chair. He drags a trembling hand down his face. There is a silent moment before he can speak again.

“Safe.” He says at last, breathing out what Hershel thought was laughter. “Really.”

“There is some reason we shouldn’t be?”

Clark sits a moment longer, slouched back in his chair. From the corner of his eye, Hershel sees that they have earned the bartender’s attention, but it’s lost again once Hershel turns around.

“God, Hershel.” The words are groaned out, weak and quiet, as he turns back to his friend. They strike the Professor as inanimate without their earlier fear, lifeless. “God. What I must look like to you. How I must seem.”

Hershel tries not to look upon his friend with such pity, but he finds that he can’t quite help himself. He’s overwhelmed by it; where his friend sits, Layton can’t help but see a hunted animal, and the sight of Clark brought so low pains him. “We meet again under unpleasant circumstance.”

“I would almost call that an understatement, old friend.” He leans his elbows on the dirty tabletop again, staring down into his empty hands. “After so many years, and this…” Clark heaves a heavy sigh, and deflates for it. “I… y-you must forgive me, Hershel. Truly, I hadn’t wanted us to meet… like this.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my friend.” Hershel watches, carefully and closely, as Clark’s attention jumps once again back to him. “Please, tell me everything.”

“Perhaps not yet, but… before long, I fear there will be.” The statement inspires a strange sort of churn in Layton’s gut. Something teetering and foreboding warns him, somewhere in some dark corner of his mind. Clark’s gaze falls, and he slouches into himself again. “I’ve little time here, but… I’m not sure you’ll want to hear what it is I have to say.” He seems to, for the first time since Hershel has arrived at the Top Drawer, consider the mug of beer sweating at his side, but disregards it. “Please understand. I ask nothing more than a friend’s ear, and—and after so many years, I am loathe to even involve you that far, but… I know you. You’ll – you’ll investigate, Hershel, I know you will, and --”

“Clark.” Hershel’s voice is low, made stern by the unknown circumstance burdening his friend. “You know that I will not deny you help when it is in my reach. I offer what I may.”

Clark turns his filmy eyes back toward Hershel again, and there is another stagnant silence. “I am unimaginably grateful, but… at the same time, I was quite afraid you might say that…” He exhales, defeated. “Alright… alright. I will tell you everything.” Clark takes in a single, unsteady breath. “It all started when Brenda and I first started living i-in Misthallery. That place…” He takes another quick look around the empty bar for ears that aren’t there, then returns his attention, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Hershel, that place is not what it seems.”

Hershel nods, gently urging Clark along when he looks up. Clark swallows.

“It all… well, it all seemed quiet and unassuming enough for a time. Brenda was content, we… had a child. Luke. We’d established ourselves there well enough, made friends with the former mayor and his family. Our neighbors were friendly and welcoming enough, but…”

Hershel’s attention is undivided as Clark falters, but he lets the other man gather himself at his own pace. “But one day, he… Evan – the mayor – h-he pulled me aside.” He takes a shaking breath, “It was a dinner party. Celebrating, god… celebrating some bit of local history. He’d approached me, and we spoke for a time.” He casts eyes at the mug again – ordered to ease suspicion at first, Hershel suspects, but now being considered. “Just… casual small talk, pleasantries. At first.”

Clark, in what the Professor supposed now was inevitable, lifts the mug and brings it to his lips, taking a small mouthful. “But as he moved by me, he grabbed for my arm, and… whispered to me.” He exhales, and his upper body seems to fall as he recalls. “‘Meet me in the gardens,’ he told me. ‘There is much that I must tell you.’” The beer is something to quench Clark’s thirst, but to Layton, lending Clark courage and rest seems beyond it’s capabilities. 

“And what did he say?” Hershel’s voice snaps up his friend’s attention.

It drifts almost as quickly as it’s caught.

“… I don’t know.” His voice is weak, subdued. “I don’t know. After the party, I returned, but there were… figures… everywhere.” He looks back to gauge his friend’s expression. “I—I simply can’t describe them, Hershel! Strange, two-legged… things, lurching all around the property! They were humanoid, but… wrong. I hid, of course - what else could I do? – but it seemed they were… searching – searching for something.”

“Someone.” Hershel substitutes. Clark’s face loses colour as he hears that. He takes another small sip from his mug to quench his dried mouth. He stares at the beading glass, and he quivers.

“Hershel, I saw them dragging something.” He hisses out at last, turning dull, frenzied eyes up once again. “They – they emerged from the manor, dragging this long shape behind them… they all left at once behind it. They dragged it toward the cliffs behind the Barde manor…”

Hershel doesn’t need any more details to guess the rest. Clark lowers his head into his hands. “I didn’t see it, but I know…”

“How?” Hershel can’t help himself; this is all striking him as a little… fantastical. “All of this is… quite a lot to take in. You certainly know how this must sound, Clark. I am concerned, but I have not seen what you have. Are you certain of all of this?”

Clark glances up drearily. “I suppose I wouldn’t believe myself, either. I begin even to doubt what I saw that night… but you may be assured of this.” He leans over the table, grip tightening around his mug, and stares starkly. His voice lowers, and Hershel has to lean in himself to hear.

“I never saw Evan Barde again after that night. Nobody did. He, his children, they were just… gone… and nobody asked any questions.” He trembles as he speaks. Layton feels the eyes of the bartender on his back, but finds himself unable to pull himself from his friend’s gaze long enough to dispel it. “Three years, and I still have no idea where any of the Bardes are. The police clearly aren’t doing a thing about it. Outsiders asked, but… Luke asks me still, and I’ve no idea how to answer. There was nothing in the papers. Re-election was announced the next day, Hershel, the next day…”

As Clark’s intensity dips, so does the Professor’s, and he casts another look to the bar. He isn’t quite sure what he should think of everything Clark is telling him, but a missing person is something concrete. “You entered that election, and you won the title of Mayor for yourself.” Clark’s face raises quickly at that, frozen in shock. “To discover whatever it was that Evan meant to impart to you.”

There’s a moment before the expression leaves Clark’s face, but it’s replaced with something Hershel is glad to see – a smile. Tired, but genuine. “Sharp as ever, I see.” He pushes himself straight with the table’s surface. “Yes, you have it right. To find out what Evan meant to tell me that night, at first.” He shifts his position and does what he can to straighten his back. “… then, to protect my family.”

“You assumed the power in this position would keep them safe.” From what, Hershel can’t be sure… and he isn’t even certain Clark can be. “If this is true, you must understand the risk you are taking relaying it all to anyone.” He keeps his tone equal in concern and warning. He doesn’t understand the full circumstance of this town, or its people, but he understands the urgency it carries – or, at least, the urgency it carries in Clark’s eyes. “A great risk, indeed. Evan Barde took the same risk, and you know what happened. Why not retreat to the police for protection?”

“Because I fear that I may not reach police who could help in time.” He seems weary to explain it; clearly, it is a thought that has passed his mind more than a few times. “I’m not sure that I have impressed on you my circumstance, Hershel. I’ve no real power in Misthallery at all. They only leave us alone because they need me to keep up appearances. If another mayor were to go missing so soon after the last…” 

“I see.” Hershel folds his arms as he turns the new information over. “You fear that you may only be tolerated until you become inconvenient.”

He shudders at the lack of subtlety, wilting visibly. “You don’t understand. You’ve not had to figure out how to tell your son why it is he can no longer see his grandparents without revealing why, or… decide with your wife what it is you’ll tell all of your friends, while hiding even from her what you’ve been told… all to put on some puppet show.” Clark stares sullenly at his beer, before taking another small drink. “You’ve not seen it – you’ve not seen them. You’ve not heard…”

“Heard what, Clark?”

He looks to the Professor again, eyes wild. “Their chanting, Hershel! Their… damned chanting!” A tremble seems to crawl over his spine as he speaks; Clark’s arms cross, hands clutching at opposing arms, to quell it. “I-I couldn’t tell you what they say, I really couldn’t… but I would bet that it is no language meant for man. I shudder to think that any man-made language is capable of doing to me what their lake-side chanting does. I’ve had to force earplugs onto Luke since he was young, just to keep him from asking questions.”

Hershel watches as Clark crumples and buries his head in his hands, groaning. “Oh, Hershel, what can I do? I’ve nowhere else to turn…” He lifts his face and stares across the table, eyes wide and tired. “Please, if you’ve a solution, I must hear it. I grow more fearful with each passing day…” He sighs, a sad and tired sound, and returns them to his mug. “If I can’t, they at least must be safely away from Misthallery. I cannot let them be hurt by this, Hershel.”

The Professor already knows that he cannot turn away Clark as he is. At best, this may be some string of misunderstandings that he can clear up in half a day, and return back to London in time for dinner with Claire. At worst, Clark and his family really do need his help, and their situation is one of life or death, filled with circumstance that Hershel can’t yet understand.

“Please, Hershel.” Clark manages, voice weakened. “Please.”

He can’t understand if it’s even safe for him to help at this point. If this isn’t some paranoid fantasy, (and, as of yet, he can’t fully trust that it isn’t,) he could be putting himself in genuine danger. The entire thing is overwhelming, and he isn’t sure he can give Clark the sort of help Hershel suspects he may need. 

The silence is thick as Layton weighs his options. Clark waits with baited breath.

Finally, “I can’t know what threat you face, Clark… but I will see what I can find on Mr. Barde.” Clark barely seems to hear him. “I’m not sure about these… mysterious figures you’ve seen, nor any conspiracy, but if a man and his family are missing, it may be documented in London.”

All at once, the tension seems to leave Clark. He slouches over the table as the air leaves his lungs. He can’t tell if he is expressing disappointment or relief. “… thank you, Hershel.” The Professor’s surprised he has the breath left to whisper the sentiment, but he does. “Perhaps… perhaps that’s all that will be needed.”

“I’m no private detective, but I shall do as I can. We will see about the rest after that.” He takes another look around the bar; somehow, Clark’s suspicion is catching. “I shall pen a response to your letter after visiting Scotland Yard. Choose a new meeting place in the next.”

Clark takes another mouthful of ale, seeming frozen in shock at Layton’s offer. “… of course. Please,” He looks back up, pale with fear. “please, they can’t know that we’ve met here, you must… you must write carefully. And – please, when can I expect to receive it?”

He suspects if Clark has been disallowed contact outside of Misthallery, or if his suspicion is truly so reaching that it has convinced him so. He must have some reason to watch his mail… Hershel frowns at the idea, and it’s implications. “Understood. I will do what I can to send the letter tonight, and it shall likely be picked up in the morning.” The Professor pushes his chair back and stands. “I can’t say when it might be delivered.”

“Of course.” Clark stands, releasing his grip on his mug –- he seems newly pale, and unable to stomach the rest, Hershel suspects. “I ought to get home… I’ve been gone for too long already.”

Clark has to support himself on the table to stand fully upright, a sight which Hershel finds upsetting. The reminder of Clark’s poor condition inspires a tinge of worry within him… perhaps there is something more to all of this. If he found nothing that he’d said of the Bardes grounded in any reality… what? He clears the lump in his throat - a bit too loudly, clearly, as Clark jumps slightly in surprise as he scratches down a note on a scrap piece of paper. “Do keep in touch, Clark.”

They walk together to the door, passed the curious eyes of the barkeep. “As I am able, Hershel.” Says Clark as the Professor takes his suit jacket from the rack. He glances over as his friend takes a long, hooded raincoat, black and wet, and hurriedly pulls it over his body. He’s tugging the hood around his face as he wordlessly holds the scrap of paper toward him. “Please…” His voice lowers, and his eyes glance around quickly, “please, send your next letter to this address, Hershel.” 

Hershel nods and slips the scrap into his pocket, opening the door with a tinkling of the overhead bell, and Hershel is in the rain again. He can’t tell if the downpour has become more forceful, or if he had simply forgotten the weather during his time with Clark in the bar. Clark seems strangely apathetic to the chilled rain, and favours the bannister as he ascends up the stairs. It’s an awkward, stretched walk, and there is a moment before he can speak.

“Will you be all right in this rain, Clark?” The Professor asks. The other man eyes him. “If you require transportation, I would be more then happy to—”

“Don’t.” The hiss almost blends into the spattering rain around them, if not for its sharpness, which pulls Layton to a full stop. “Please, we can’t be seen speaking. I should have left after you…” He seems to catch onto his tone, and stops himself. “… ah, I’m sorry, Hershel. I call you after all of these years for a favour, and even in the face of your patience with me, I find new ways to treat you terribly. Do not worry for me, my friend. We shall speak soon.”

A low sinking pulls his stomach to his knees as they part ways. Hershel looks to say goodbye, but Clark is steadfastly ignoring him as he heads to the closest bus stop. 

He pulls his car door open and enters, slamming it against the rain water. He waits, watching Clark’s form blur and warp in the running rainwater on his window as he hurries farther and farther down the wet streets, and he thinks.

He thinks of Eloise Kelshaw and her clawing grasp at his wrist’s cuff, of her bosom-crossing and the cracking, aged roar in her voice, and of Clark and his chanting, and the vanished Bardes.

He thinks also of Luke, and his questions and his earplugs, as he keys his car engine to rumbling life. He pulls into the road, and putters away, leaving Haddonbury behind him.

He ponders what he has learned as his car rumbles along, driving through the deluge, peering through the watery gloom whenever it clears enough. Hershel isn’t sure whether he should be more concerned with Clark’s story, or his mental state. He has clearly… deteriorated, since college. Simply listening to him had been a surreal experience; if he hadn’t been able to recognize him visually, Hershel isn’t sure he would have at all.

Can what he’s been told, then, truly be trusted? Hershel doesn’t know that he knows as he drives through the rainstorm. It would be short-sighted and rude to simply write Clark’s call for help off as the rantings of a madman, but he finds it more and more difficult to digest. Clark had contacted him, coded a hidden message in his letter, and had ranted and raved about some town-wide conspiracy against his family. As much as Hershel disliked admitting it, it all did sound like the delusional ravings of a paranoid madman.

Hershel spots a glimmer of red through the flood of water on his windshield, and draws to a stop. If there were somehow even some small grain of truth to it all, he could not afford skepticism. Clark had to have some reason behind all of the effort he had taken to contact him – and to contact him discreetly. He clearly knew exactly what it all sounded like, after all. Clark almost hadn’t seemed to expect being believed through it all. And why contact Hershel at all, if he hadn’t truly needed help in some way?

He supposes the real question he should be asking, is whether he is sure that he should be heading to investigate further, instead of calling the nearest asylum. 

The short blare of a car horn rips Hershel from his thoughts with a good start; he isn’t sure if the green light is lost in the flowing water on his wind-screen, or if he is. He coaxes his car to movement and tries to shake the last of his thoughts on the matter away; it’s terrible weather to be driving while distracted. No matter what, Clark needs help; he’ll decide what sort of help he needs after gathering more information.

\--

It’s a silent, tense drive before he reaches his next destination. Though the skies have darkened considerably, Hershel suspects that the trip felt a heavy deal longer then it truly was as he pulls his car against the curb in front of Scotland Yard. The downpour has offered Hershel a short reprieve, lightening to a cloudy spittle during the drive, and he is thankful for that. He opens the car door and steps out onto the wet sidewalk on wooden legs, and trembles as he stretches the stiffness from his limbs. He pushes the door shut and approaches the brick building.

The Yard is not a very exciting place today, from the looks of things. There are some officers milling about, chatting over mugs of old coffee. The most Hershel spies from the door is an angry, rough-looking delinquent slouched over in one of the row of chairs, cuffed hands toying with the fronds of a stout potted plant.

The true dominating force of the room, however, seems to be a man seated behind a paneless window he seems to only barely fit behind, square between two hallways branching away further into the station. He’s a plain-looking fellow, save for his solid stature and broad shoulders; a bristling moustache peppered with crumbs hides his lips, and the top of his head is covered in flat, ash-brown hair. He’s too distracted by his paper and coffee to give Hershel the time of day, but the Professor is undeterred. He approaches.

Hershel sees a plate with a half-eaten donut as he draws nearer. The man rustles his paper as he draws nearer, but doesn’t so much as glance his way.

“Excuse me, Officer.”

The man stops reading and eyes the Professor. He doesn’t prompt him, but he takes the acknowledgement as some sort of invitation to continue.

“I am looking to access some documentation for academic research. Would you happen to know how I would go about this?”

“Library’s ‘round the corner.” He barely lets Hershel finish before rumbling the answer out, low and growling.

Hershel tries not to let the sharp, instant answer falter him. “I am not confident that the documents I’m looking for will be available there.”

“If they ain’t in the library, I’d say that means you ain’t supposed to be readin’ them.” Gruff and instant again comes the officer’s response. 

“Of course. I would never expect academia to eclipse your duties as an officer of the law,” Hershel responds, and continues as the officer again begins to speak, “I was simply wondering if you could help me know where I might find documentation regarding missing persons from Misthallery.”

For once, the officer doesn’t snap back instantly. He seems stumbled somehow by this, and Layton half-wonders if he has been too overt. His tongue works something in his mouth during the moment of silence, and his eyebrows raise as he watches the Professor. He folds his paper in thick silence and places it in his lap, and the Professor suddenly feels at a loss as the officer’s full attention is turned to him. “And what exactly are these… academic endeavors?” He rumbles the question out, turning in his chair to face him fully as he does so.

Thankfully, the lie comes easily enough. “I am a professor at Gressenheller University. A colleague of mine is doing some criminology research, and she asked me to see about how one would acquire documents relating to missing persons in the area.”

The lazy eyes of the officer are hard now, and trained on Layton. He peers down at the Professor, leaning forward in his booth, knuckles steepled and tense. His speech is slow and deliberate, inching the next question forward; “And what exactly would the purpose behind this research be?”

He can’t help balking a little; the officer exudes intimidation, and Layton feels as though all of it is squarely aimed at him. He blinks, and finds himself scrambling a little in the face of it. “Well…” He can’t give any names, he knows that, and he can’t give too much detail, lest his lie be sussed out. It’s clear that something has tripped in the officer, something about Hershel’s words. He hadn’t been slightly interested before Hershel mentioned…

Misthallery.

His stomach drops to his knees as he realizes. He takes a breath; his conclusion had come quickly, thankfully, but the policeman isn’t pleased with the pause, brief as it had been. “I believe she is seeking out trends in missing persons cases based on geographical location.” He answers – more quickly than he would have liked, but it’s an answer. “She was seeking out reports from around England, and… she had some measure of difficulty finding any documentation of the like from Misthallery.” His nerves calm, and he feels his face cool. He looks at the officer evenly as he continues; “With the trouble this task was bringing to her, I simply thought…”

Rough and snappy comes the answer; “You thought wrong, and it’d be best if you left.” He seems, at the very least, slightly eased by the answer. He pushes back into his chair and grabs his paper from his lap, though he keeps his eyes on Layton as he speaks. “I couldn’t help your friend even if I was so inclined.”

“Whatever could you—”

“Mate,” The officer rustles his newspaper again with a forceful jolt of his arms, and turns his eyes back to it. “I ain’t at liberty to tell you, or any of your ‘friends,’” and he does put considerable emphasis on the word “friend,” “any specifics about our documentation here at the Yard. Seeing as how it’ll get you off my back, I’ll make an exception.” The officer grabs for his half-eaten donut. “All I’ll be tellin’ you here is that you’re outta luck. We got nothin’ from Misthallery. Them documents is gone, as you should make yourself.”

The abruptness of the answer has Hershel a bit stunned. A missing persons report, surely, would have found it’s way here. He clears his throat, attempting some kind of foothold; “I… I don’t suppose you could tell me what it is you mean?”

The officer bites from his snack, eyes glued to his paper. Hershel has the feeling that nothing he could say will pull them out again. “I don’t suppose I could. Your friend’s… academic research, as you call it, isn’t any concern of the police. I’ll ask again that you take your leave.”

“Of course.” Hershel attempts to even his surprise, stepping away from the little window. “Thank you. You’ve been… most informative.”

The officer grunts as he turns and leaves the station.

Hershel pulls the door to his car open and lowers himself into the driver’s seat. 

He supposes he had been foolish to rely so heavily on receiving the documents, but he feels that he’s been left with fewer answers then he had before. There is even less tangibility to the entire thing, without proof that the Barde family ever went missing – or, Hershel realizes now, that they ever existed at all. He sits in his car and thinks, grip flexing on the wheel.

Really, he hadn’t even had answers about the documents themselves, and the thought brings him considerable discomfort. What had the officer meant? The documents were… gone. They had been there before? Where had they gone – why? 

Were they gone, or withheld? He cannot ignore the turn in the officer’s demeanor once Misthallery was mentioned specifically, nor his slight easing once the focus was made more general. The idea inspires a shudder in Hershel. Uncertainty, thick and black, clouds his thoughts as he sits in his car.

Clark may be off the mark with the existence of a conspiracy being wholly pointed against him, but the idea that something is fundamentally wrong in Misthallery is one that he cannot abandon.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a scrap of note paper poking from underneath the large, wrinkled map he had piled there. He tugs the thing out, and is faced with Claire’s handwriting – not as graceful as his own, hasty and messy, but legible by now. She had given him a small list of groceries before he had left that morning; eggs, apples, fish, flour. Not a terrible amount of food, but he had been out, and he’d nearly forgotten.

Maybe a trip to the green-grocer would help him think things through.

\--

Hershel pulls into his driveway far later then he thought he might when he left in the morning.

He cuts his engine, and the headlamp’s rain-slotted light fades, and he’s left in wet, pattering blackness. The rain is back, Hershel notes with a sigh as he grabs for the paper bag in the passenger’s seat and exits his vehicle. He doesn’t bother to shield himself by now, but he does prematurely fish his housekeys from his jacket as he shuts his car door.

The walk to the porch is mercifully short; Hershel is quite tired of being soaked through by the rain. He reaches its cover in relatively short time, but pauses to change his grasp on the dampening bag of groceries, cradling it from underneath with one arm. He toys with the door’s lock for a moment, and succeeds in sliding the deadbolt aside. He pushes the door open, careful to balance the bag of food in his arms as he does so, and picks his way inside.

The house is dark – which he takes as a sign that Claire, hopefully, is sleeping, and not working in some other part of their home. He slides the bag onto the kitchen island and shuts the cold out at the front door.

He unlaces his wet shoes with some small relief, and hangs his jacket at the front door.

He puts away the groceries Claire had requested of him before he left, tucking them away quickly and quietly, before creeping up the stairs. The hall is, thankfully, familiar to him – he doesn’t bother with turning on lights to navigate to the bedroom, but he does stop at the linen closet to take a towel quickly.

He turns the doorknob of the room at the leftmost and shifts his weight toward the hinges; the door has an unpleasant way of sticking, and sticking loudly. Entering the room, Hershel carefully closes the door again, and looks to the large bed occupying the middle of the room. Through what little light the curtains will allow, he sees her shape. Her shoulders gently rise and fall. Hershel finds himself glad – too often has he found her exhausted with her work.

Tiptoeing to a chest of drawers against the wall nearest the door, Hershel peels his wet socks off – almost with glee. He finds himself flexing his cold and soaked feet briefly after each sock is removed. He straightens and next unbuttons his vest, shrugging out of it and hanging it from the back of a nearby wooden chair. Half of his buttons are undone when he hears fabric shifting behind him. With a contented sigh, her arms are around him, and her cheek is at his back.

It takes her as little time as he might have guessed to stiffen.

“… you know we’ve a car, Hershel.” Her arms slip back, and he can’t help but chuckle a little. The grog of sleep is shaken almost instantly from her; he supposes the rainwater had been sobering. “My, no wonder you’ve been gone so long.”

He smiles as Claire lights the bedside table. “Truthfully, I might as well have walked.”

“I’m not all convinced you didn’t.” She heads back to the bed and sits on the comforter as Hershel unbuttons the rest of his shirt, yawning. “How was the whole ordeal, anyway? What did Clark want with you in Haddonbury?”

Hershel finishes opening his shirt and shrugging out of it before he tries to answer; “I’m still not certain myself, honestly.” He hangs the wet shirt with his vest for now, and takes the towel. Scrubbing his arms dry, he tries to elaborate, “I did meet with Clark, but he’s… changed.”

“Well, it’s to be expected, dear.” Claire is approaching from behind, and Hershel turns as he dries the rainwater to see her holding his pajamas. “We’ve not seen Clark in so many years, you know. I would be far more surprised to see him as he was then.”

“Oh—thank you, darling.” He dries his shoulders down and takes the pajama set, setting the pants aside and unbuttoning the shirt. “Of course, but… Claire, he hardly seemed the same person at all.” He unbuckles his belt as Claire watches him, concerned.

“Hershel, what do you mean?” She asks, “What did he tell you?”

“He was—” He grunts, zips his soaked pants back up to uncatch the zipper, and pulls it down again. “—well, just… frightened, like nothing I’ve seen. Raving and ranting about some town-wide conspiracy in Misthallery.” He slides his legs from his pants and folds them in half, hanging them from a sturdy and empty hangar in the closet, and begins drying his legs. He turns, and sees Claire looking far more serious then he might have expected.

“Conspiracy?” Claire steps back and returns to her seat on the bed. “A conspiracy, in Misthallery?” She hugs her arms to her chest. “Whatever could that mean?”

“He was sparing, I should say, with his details.” Hershel peels off his wet socks, one by one, and quietly sighs in relief as he flexes his toes and feet. “He implies to have reason to worry for his family.”

“He thinks Brenda is in danger?”

“So it would appear.”

Claire is looking straight down at him as he finishes drying his feet.

“Do you believe him, Hershel?” She doesn’t mince words, and her tone is as straight as she can make it. “Do you have any reason to believe him?”

The question was a difficult one to answer, and he knew “yes and no” alone would not suffice. “… I don’t know.” Hershel stands and grabs for his pajama pants, unfolding them and spreading open the waistband. “I just don’t know about this… conspiracy business.”

“But do you really think Clark would invent such a thing?” She’s weaving the sash of her robe through her fingers, staring straight at Hershel with intent that he was familiar with; typical of Claire, she has cut straight to the heart of the problem, with wit sharper then he himself might have mustered.

“I do not.” He steps into the striped pants and pulls the band over himself. “This whole thing seems fantastical, but Clark doesn’t seem to be alone. Others seemto share his distaste for Misthallery, and I am a liar if I say that I think that Clark would simply concoct it all. There’s hardly any reason he would stand to do something like that. There wouldn’t be anything to gain.”

“… you think he’s gone mad, then? That’s the only other option I see.” She’s shifting on the bed behind him. Hershel turns and walks to his side, lifting the comforter and sinking into the mattress’ familiar comfort. At once, he feels like he’s ready to melt into the soft comforter.

“No, not quite.” Hershel relishes the dry warmth of the bed for only a second longer before elaborating; “I can’t say what I might think of this conspiracy jabber, but…”

“Something is wrong.” Claire supplies, “And I suppose you’ll be looking to find out what.”

Hershel can’t help but find small amusement in Claire’s tone. He places a gentle hand on her cheek. “I’m left with terrible few options, my dear.”

He thinks he sees her smile, just slightly. “I suppose not…” She touches his hand lightly with hers. “Do you think they may truly be in danger, dear?”

“I do.” His thumb strokes Claire’s cheek, soft and lightly. “If it comes to my leaving, I shouldn’t think you’ll have the time to miss me too badly.”

He feels her cheek heat a little. She glances away as she speaks; “Perhaps we ought to… you know, make the best of what time we have now.” Claire comes closer, and her lips are on his. Hershel’s fingers wind in her hair as she presses into him, and the last of the rain’s iciness lifts from him.

The kiss is short-lived; or, if it isn’t, it certainly feels that way. She pulls back in what feels like seconds, smiling warmly enough to outshine the bedroom light. She pulls herself half-upright to turn around and snap the lamplight off.


	5. Luke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello  
> just another letter chapter for u all while i fix up the next bits  
> also i changed the summary fbrbfbrbf

Professor,                                                                  

 

Time is not on my side, so I will write briefly. I will make no spectacle of hiding any

messages in this letter, as my father previously needed to. Please waste no time in

looking for them.

 

My mother and father have been taken, and they will surely perish if no-one

intervenes. Our family home has been ransacked. In securing escape and

allowing me the chance to live, I fear that my mother and father have given

their own. I do not know where they are being held, but I returned later to our

home in hopelessness, and found the letters he had received from you.

 

I do not know you, but I feel that my father had reason to trust you. Please,

come to Misthallery. I am determined to find my mother and father, but I am

alone, and there are eyes and ears on every wall, and they are all searching for

me. As my father before me did, I regret deeply bringing you further into

Misthallery and its politics, but I am desperate. I ask you for help – if not for me,

then for my parents.

 

Sincerely,

Luke Triton


End file.
